Barbara
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: A planned night of debauchery leads to unintended actions. [Slight P/C pairing, general Season 2ish ensemble friendship. Complete]


A/N: I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore. It's spring break of my senior year and I'm working overnights, so this is just a little thing written in the afternoon when I've been unable to sleep. My work is either very serious or very stupid, and this is a prime example of the latter. There's a lot of little oneshots where the crew gets wasted, which are very entertaining, so I figure that this is a bit parodizing all of the tropes within that. Also a little subtle dig at this fandom's taste in songfics, because I love all of you, my dear Generation Xers. I hope this lives up to the farcical comedy precedence I've set before.

This is dedicated to my dear beta BonesBird, because our song will forever be _Somewhere Only We Know._ T for language and suggestive content. Slight PC, but mostly general Season 1/2 ensemble friendship. Complete as published, until I get back into the chapter fic writing groove. This features my own version of Chef as featured in _Laundry Night on the NX-01_, and my own headcanon Anna Hess from _Musings on a Dead Stop_. Lastly, if you've been reading _Intertwining Destinies_, this addresses the entire Denobulan surname debacle. Comments for good karma and drunk Liz.

**Barbara**

Just as there were whispers of activity reaching the hallways of the _Enterprise_, heralding the start of what was sure to be a very busy alpha shift, the man informally known as Chef entered the correct passcode and swept into his domain with undue flourish. The cloying scents of charred merengue and sweet berries hung in the air like fine perfume, as he had rolled out some of his more famous dessert recipes for the previous evening's festivities. Yes, the birthday of a commanding officer was eternally a cause for celebration on his ship, and he was only too willing to provide. And even though it was yet seven on a Monday morning, he switched on the oven and made tracks towards the mess hall.

The lights had been dimmed significantly for the comfort of delta shift, so he turned them up to fifty percent. In the far corner of the room, he caught sight of a blue jumpsuit sitting bolt upright and its occupant shaking a recalcitrant fist in his direction.

"Dammit, Moreau! Can't you wake up a guy nice an' easy?" The American Southern accent was unmistakable.

"My apologies, Mr. Tucker," the Frenchman replied automatically. He held particular scorn for this man and his constant requests for pecan pie. How hard to grasp was the concept of variety? It wasn't as if he was cooking for only one.

The engineer grumbled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and muttering something about inconsiderate shipmates. And because Chef Moreau could not bear not to have the last hurrah in any verbal sparring match, he added, "It is not my fault that certain members of the crew decided to…how do you say…_overindulge_…at last evening's soiree." With that, and a noticeable sniff of disdain, he stepped through the egress and back into his culinary domain.

Trip groaned. Even though that comment had been dangerously close to insubordination, Chef had been correct in his assessment. Against his better judgment, he had gotten absolutely_ sloshed_ the night before.

It was just…how else was he supposed to celebrate his best friend turning thirty? It was Novakovich's fault, he decided, for breaking out an exotic alien liquor just as the festivities got into full swing. He had never seen anything like it before—all iridescently sapphire with the consistency of maple syrup—but _shit_, did it go down like lightning. The ensign claimed to have picked it up on his last jaunt of shore leave. Leave it to one of T'Pol's scientists to harbor some inkling of an irrepressible party animal in his down time. In retrospect, he probably should not have chosen to trust the guy who had unintentionally gotten them hopped up on plant pollen during their first ever away mission.

But that particular let down couldn't _possibly_ compare to the killer hangover he was currently experiencing.

He had tried all of his usual maverick cures. Even a shot of equal parts soy and Worcestershire sauces couldn't shake off the funk. But he digressed; he did pick up the early shift this week, and the aft plasma injectors did need an additional upgrade. After a scalding hot shower and a fresh uniform, he found himself in the mess hall, nursing his third cup of black coffee.

After some moments in contemplation, Trip began to doze off, lulled by the incessant drone of the living mechanical beast that he was proud to call his ship. Through bleary vision, he saw the entrance to the mess hall slide open and admit a familiar form. Seconds later, he heard the chair across from him slide back from the table and felt a hypospray being pressed into his hand.

"Well, aren't_ you_ a little bit worse for wear?"

Trip opened his eyes to regard Hoshi Sato, who also appeared a little rough around the edges this early in the morning. However, the heavy circles around her eyes were not the products of an evening of debauchery.

"How was the double shift?"

"Hell," she responded, fiddling with the vial of mild analgesic she had procured from sickbay for her friend. "But the universal translator isn't going to program itself, especially if the Captain wants to be fully operational in Akaali by the time we reach the next system."

The engineer smiled in spite of himself. "You'll get it, Hosh. I know you will."

"Whatever you say," she said, shifting to sit on her folded knees. Clearly, she anticipated being here for a long time and wanted to be comfortable. "I wish that I hadn't missed Malcolm's birthday party, though."

And did he ever wish she had been there. Hoshi had planned a majority of the affair, which featured genteel party games and devolved into a full-on rager. She had something to live up to, it was said, because last year's simple gesture of pineapple cake had defied the Brit's every expectation. Trip had looked forward to the event, perhaps to glimpse the lovely Japanese woman in a form fitting cocktail dress and maybe even take her on a spin around the dance floor. But, naturally, fate had intervened, and Trip had resigned to spend the time in the company of his male friends.

"Thirty is a real milestone," he commented absently, injecting himself with the medication that he hoped would take the edge off of his pounding migraine.

"I wouldn't know about that yet," Hoshi giggled.

The mess hall's door slid open, and a few more familiar faces trickled in. The conversation quickly died away, so the pair spent a few precious moments in companionable silence. Finally, the communications officer jostled his arm and prompted, "Alright, but you've got to fill me in."

"On what?" He questioned innocently.

"You know what!" She was incredulous. "I never miss a party, and I've got a reputation to uphold."

This was true. Hoshi was _Enterprise_'s reigning gossip queen, and who was he to deny her curiosity? Leaning forward, he began to whisper conspiratorially on the events of the previous evening.

-0-

"I'm tellin' you right now, he doesn't even have a last name."

"You're dead wrong, Tucker, and I'd bet this pint I'm drinking on the very opposite," Travis Mayweather insisted, pounding the bottom of his glass on the tabletop for emphasis. Through somewhat bleary vision, he regarded his friend and superior officer with what he hoped could be mistaken for a challenging glare.

Trip snorted indignantly, wiping his nose on the back of his upturned shirt sleeves. "Come on, we've all had to suffer through the yearly viewing of his personal photos during our physicals. It's the only time when he's got a captive audience to drone on and on about that massive family of his. You know the drill. We start with those darling children, all drawn up with ribbons and button noses, and then eventually we get around to group photos of those lovely wives of his. You know the ones. Tight frames, blonde hair, those big blue eyes. And _how_ does he always introduce them? Why, yes, that's my beloved wife Atara Phlox, Feezal Phlox, Wemel Phlox—"

"Now wait just a hot minute," Travis interrupted, "You just contradicted yourself. If that isn't a last name, why are they written up as such?"

"How the hell should I know?" He huffed in mock exasperation. "I figure they introduce them with a different surname for whichever one of the men they're with," Trip pauses, appearing to think it over. "But I reckon that would get confusin' after a while."

Enterprise's helmsman nodded quickly, emphatically.

"But that doesn't mean he has a damn last name, you hear me? Because if you look in the Doc's file, there it says, plain as day, Doctor Phlox of Denobula. No other specifications to be found. Unless they're only given first names, like Madonna or Prince."

Mayweather, who had arrived a bit earlier than Trip and was slightly more intoxicated, eyed him dubiously.

"You know, like a stage name. Any good singer—or, hell, porn star for that matter—they've got one."

"You and your old music," he slurred, "why not try listening to something from this century?"

"Stay on topic if you wanna even get close to winning this argument," Trip warned, pointing a finger at his opponent. As he eyed his target, he was surprised to see two more of Travis appear and join the first, swimming before his eyes and only serving to agitate him further.

Travis took a deep swig from his glass, followed by the bold declaration, "I figure he's just been hiding his given name all along."

Trip did not appear to be convinced.

"Back on the _Horizon_, I had no idea that my father's sister was named Gertrude. I just called her Auntie 'til I was seven."

"Enough of your damn boomer stories," the engineer grumbled. Across the mess hall, the deejay cued up a frenetic bass rhythm, over which an accented chanteuse began to belt out the decade's most relevant party anthem. He was growing irritated that Travis's logic, even while intoxicated, was even sharper than his. "Especially when we've got no way to know for sure."

"Who says that we don't?" He asked rhetorically, twisting around in his chair and nearly falling out of it to gain the attention of a passing woman.

Starting slightly at the tug of her sleeve, Elizabeth Cutler treated the gentlemen to one of her trademark dazzling smiles. Lightweight that she was, two fruity cocktails had already caused a rosy blush to color her cheeks. She leaned over the table, missed her mark, and nearly tumbled into Trip's lap.

"Whoa, there!" He exclaimed, righting the scientist to a standing position.

The entomologist fairly beamed, carefully sitting on the rim of the nearest chair and attempting for all the world to appear as dainty and infallible as she was when she was sober. "Sorry about that. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I need you to do me a favor," Mayweather replied, his dark eyes flashing with mischief.

Her lips formed a tiny O of surprise at this. "I told you, Travis, that was_ one time,_ and I have no attention of—"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Trip cut her short before she could begin to relay the details of any of the junior officers' more embarrassing escapades. "It's just a harmless little experiment with the Doctor, that's all."

The young woman smirked and leaned in with interest. Over the helmsman's shoulder, she could see the object of their scrutiny leaning against the bar, his arms crossed as he studied the boisterous displays of human merrymaking that were currently taking place all over the room. This party in particular was truly a sociologist's paradise.

"What kind of experiment?"

"Please, we'll be the ones asking the questions here," Trip passed her his mug, which Elizabeth took a swig from due to a sudden surge of adrenaline. "First, do you know if Phlox has any other names? A particular first or last he prefers?"

She pondered this for a moment, before shaking her head to indicate the negative. The men appear crestfallen. If anyone on the ship could be privy to the Doctor's more revealing secrets, it would be his assistant. Eyeing how her two friends sunk back into their chairs and sighed in resignation, Cutler quickly says, "But I bet I could find out."

"And just how do you plan to do that?" Travis, now that most of his hope to best Trip in an argument of wits had been dashed, was genuinely curious as to her plan.

To the surprise of her two companions, Liz proceeded to undo the zipper of her jumpsuit and unhook the top three hook and eye clasps of her undershirt. Giving her décolletage a preemptive hoist with her hands, she pushed her chair back from the table. "Watch and learn, boys," her grin was now somewhat lascivious. Before reason or propriety could pull her back, she stalked across the dancefloor with more conviction than a burlesque dancer whose rent on her high rise apartment was due tomorrow.

After a few moments, wherein they had observed the crewman nearly coax the flustered doctor out of the mess hall entirely, Trip whistled. Glancing back at his partner in crime, it appeared that there was little left to say on the matter. Raising his mug once more, he declared, "To Elizabeth Joanne Cutler, the ballsiest and bravest woman on this entire goddamned ship."

"Here, here," Travis echoed. And then the toast was complete.

The two continued to drink.

-0-

While Trip and Travis were having their fun, the man of the hour entered the room, surreptitiously stealing glances at the rampant acts of depravity that were occurring at large all over the normally orderly mess hall. Hoshi had sworn up and down that this party was planned in accordance to his wishes, right down to his dessert preferences and predilection for quiet get togethers, but now it was obvious that in her absence the dissolute crew had taken the festivities in a decidedly different direction.

The music was pounding, frenzied, and he had to do some fancy footwork in order to get around the undulating mass of bodies that covered every square inch of the makeshift dance floor. As a lad, he had only learned the Viennese waltz in his etiquette classes, which had been provided as an afterthought by his father as he prepared for his son to enter into genteel society. Yes, Malcolm Reed was a decorous gentleman, with yet such constraints of propriety on his behavior that he rarely allowed himself to let loose. In fact, the longer he stayed in the company of such raucous revelers, the more irritated he grew with their actions. Mugs and their contents were being sloshed around; liquor was flowing freely. Didn't most of these people have _duty_ in the morning?

A stewardess, clad in attire more suitable for a Renaissance serving wench, swept by him, offering the platter she was carrying on outstretched hands.

Malcolm recognized the delicacy almost immediately as Chef's finest upside down pineapple cake bites. Nodding at the crewman, he quickly downed one, then two. The intermingling tastes of sugar and cherries danced across his tongue, and suddenly the normally staunch armory officer was in a much more spirited mood, indeed.

He could see now that several British flags had been tacked up in a few corners, almost as an afterthought, but Hoshi's touch was evident in the smallest of places. Even if his colleague had been otherwise occupied that evening, rushing to complete a linguistic task for the Captain, her dedication to the cause could only be described as charming.

A few moments later, a somewhat familiar scrap of red hair stopped at his elbow and took hold of his bicep. His head whirled around in order to confirm his suspicions as to who had invaded his bubble of personal space.

Lieutenant Anna Hess, five foot three inches of pure Bavarian spunk, beamed up at him, dimples on prominent display. Without a second thought, she asked breathlessly, "Isn't it a great party, Mr. Reed?" Then, taking in his guise of consternation at the improper address, she stepped backwards, releasing his arm in the process. "I mean—"

He held up his hand to cut her off, but found it full of samples of Chef's cloyingly sweet _amuse-bouches._ Suddenly, the entire situation seemed humorous to him, and Tucker's right hand woman was surprised to see the Brit crack a wry grin.

"Yes, it is a fine party. That, it surely is," he turns and places the tiny desserts on an empty plate atop a nearby speaker, ignoring the grievous breach of cleanliness. When he faces the woman once more, he finds her considerably more relaxed, albeit confused.

"Tell me, Miss Hess, do you dance to this…this…" he trails off, hand twirling the air contemplatively.

"This…_music_?" She offers, having to almost shout to be heard over it.

"Yes, this music. Do you happen to listen to this music often?"

She lit up at that instant, almost bouncing on her toes in excitement. "I do. Or, I did. Back at the Academy, my girlfriends and I went out dancing nearly every weekend. It was a great way to decompress after a long week of exams and studying." Anna pauses, finding that there is little left to say. "Do you…do _you_ like this music?"

"It appears to be growing on me," even as Malcolm spoke those words, he knew that his foot was tapping to the infectious rhythm.

Suddenly all the tension between them breaks, and the man that had seemed inapproachable since the beginning of the mission only a year ago seems so much more amicable. A giggle escaping her lips, Anna grasps his wrist and pulls him closer to her fellow revelers, relishing the surprise that adorns his expression when she resumes to undulate her hips to the music.

-0-

Some time later, when both Trip and Travis are much closer to falling into an ungainly stupor due to Ensign Novakovich's aptly nicknamed Party Elixir, the engineer shakes his companion to attention.

"Well, I'll be damned!"

His declaration is well warranted, as at that moment, Elizabeth Cutler stumbles out of one of the few supply closets at the far corner of the mess, followed closely by a certain Denobulan physician. Their clothing seems somewhat displaced, their hair ruffled, and cheeks rosy red. The Doctor seems quite a bit more composed than Liz, taking out a data PADD and busily scribbling down a few notes. He does manage to tear his gaze away from his research to spare a longing glance at his mobile paramour, who begins to approach her friends with all of the grace and composure of a newborn colt.

"Jee-zus, Liz, I didn't think you had it in you!" Travis exclaims, slinging a friendly arm across her shoulder once she gets close enough.

The young woman appears to have sobered up a great deal since their last discussion, a cunning glint now in her eye. She makes no attempt to shrug off her colleague's kindly praise, but otherwise says nothing. Meeting Trip's eyes, she takes a swig of the blue liquid in their mugs and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Her smile is triumphant, as if she's challenging them to ask about her latest exploit.

"Come on, you did the deed, now you gotta spill," Trip encourages.

She stands, running her fingers over her disheveled uniform. "Sorry, boys, but I've been sworn to secrecy."

"What!" They cry almost in unison, then Travis nearly begs, "You mean you can't tell us _anything_?!"

Elizabeth waves at someone across the mess hall and turns to leave. But because she is hesitant to leave her gullible companions in remiss for such pressing information, she leans in and says a single word.

"His name is Barbara. Plain as day," and with a wink, she dashes off to reunite with other friends.

The two drunken officers exchange a look of shock. It's the first bout of extended silence for the pair since the evening begun. But it doesn't last long before Trip cries, "I _knew_ it!"

-0-

Jonathan Archer had become a man of a certain age some time ago, but that sure didn't stop him from enjoying a good party every now and then. Pushing the counsel of his sub-commander to the far reaches of his mind, he resolved to set aside his book for the remainder of the evening and make an appearance before the chronometer struck midnight and the crew that were to work the following morning were forced to their quarters by their resident Vulcan's mandatory curfews.

As it appeared, a majority of his senior-most officers were sloppily drunk, in addition to a great deal of the junior staff. But before he could intervene and shut off the tap at a reasonable time, he had been accosted by one of Hoshi's festive acolytes and led up to the stage with a microphone in his hand.

Doctor Phlox was already there, enthusiastically relaying his findings from the evening to a mostly incoherent crowd. But before he could get to the more juicy details, he was interrupted by hearty jeering from the far corner of the room.

"Hey, Barb! Tell 'em about you an' Liz gettin' busy in the storage compartment! They'd _love_ it!" It was none other than Trip Tucker, standing in the seat of his chair and looking as if he might fall over in the storage compartment.

Those sober enough to comprehend that statement gasped in surprise. There was a flurry of activity from the opposite side of the mess hall, followed by Travis Mayweather shouting out, "Yeah, Barb! Hey, can we call you Barbie? Is that okay? Is it all goo—"

A stray data PADD came flying through the air and hit him directly in the chest, causing him helmsman to topple backward onto the deck plating. Jon didn't have to wager to guess where it had come from.

Before an all-out physical altercation could begin even among the most civil—_typically_—of his officers, Jonathan whispered something to the deejay. Seconds later, he whirled around, saying, "Alright, for the next one, we're going to slow things down a bit."

After a moment, words appeared on the wall behind him, as a prompt of some sort. Because nothing said good, clean, sobering, not-worthy-of-a-report-home-to-Admiral-Forrest fun like_ karaoke_.

Due to some small portion of conditioning that remained in the back of their minds from secondary school dances, the crew began to subdivide into groups and finally into couples as their Captain slowly lifted the microphone to his lips and began in a weary voice:_ "I walked across an empty land, I knew the pathway like the back of my hand…"_

-0-

"You've got to be kidding me," Hoshi Sato, who had been listening to her superior officer relay the tales of the previous evening's festivities for the better part of half an hour, was skeptical. "You're telling me that the night devolved in a heartfelt karaoke session featuring all of the hit love songs of the early twenty-first century?"

Trip nodded resignedly, his shoulders dipping in exhaustion. "And when the Sub-Commander came to check up on the party, she found that half of the crew was passed out drunk, and the other half were hanging all over each other sobbing."

"And that's why my replacement didn't bother showing up until 0600 hours."

He murmured his assent. "We've got to be more careful with ourselves, really, Hosh. I can't imagine what might have happened if the Suliban had shown up in the thick of this. I'm telling you. I ain't ever getting drunk again. Not _never_."

She eyed him doubtfully. For the first time, she was noticing that many of the wall fixtures were ajar, a great deal of the tables littered with the evidence of the night before. It really was funny, all of this. She chuckled to herself while Trip continued to down his coffee.

Eventually, Malcolm Reed entered the mess hall, squinting at the brightness of the overhead lights, and made a beeline towards the two people he could recognize. He paused, retreated into the kitchen, and returned with a full plate of _hors d'oeuvres_. As he pulled a chair up to their table, Hoshi was treated to an unexpected smile.

"Did you have fun last night?"

"I did," he acknowledged, "And I wanted to thank you for yet another stellar birthday, Ensign. Please, have the rest of these little cakes. I saved them for you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hoshi said, lifting one of the desserts to her lips. Trip groaned. The mere suggestion of food right now made his stomach churn.

Malcolm stood suddenly, reaching out for the abandoned hypospray in the center of the table. "I trust that you're done with this, Commander?"

Trip waved his hand dismissively at the Brit. This morning, of all mornings, he didn't care for his sassy attitude. "Have at it."

"Well, as long as I'm heading in the direction of sickbay, I might as well take this back from whence it came." He turned, but then turned back to mutter wryly, "Back to…_Barbara_."

From the direction of the exit, a data PADD came soaring through the artificial gravity and hit him squarely in the back of the head.

**The End**


End file.
